


Of Monsters and Men

by ari (TessaTheDreamer)



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Post-War, Vampires, World War II, if anyone finds this i hope you like it, people die but what else did you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessaTheDreamer/pseuds/ari
Summary: "How can I forgive myself for what I cannot control?All these men died in that battle and I had to luck out.I should be glad to live another day, to see Paul and Andrew and Oliver. I’m not."Jim is a vampire. During the Second World War. This is a story of him, his friends, his love, and the struggles that come with immortality.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	Of Monsters and Men

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I tried to do as much research as I could have to make this accurate, but I could not be bothered to research everything so I ask for your suspension of disbelief. Please enjoy this piece of original work.

_12 September 1942_

_Not a lot of eighteen-year-olds have been to as many funerals. Though this war may have changed that. Anyway, I’m technically not 18. I’m… well over that. For people my age… well, I’d be dead if I wasn’t un-dead._

_I’ve experienced my fair share of funerals. Grandparents when I was a teen, still alive with a beating heart and warm cheeks. Parents, they died early on as well. Too early to realise their youngest son had become a monster. Father fought in the Civil War, North. Good man. Mother died of pneumonia along with my eldest sister. Then, one by one, all my siblings and the few friends I had. Decade by decade, they died off. Leaving me._

_I never fought in the first war - the Great one. I couldn’t cope with humanity and life after everyone around me started growing old. I moved to the most reclusive part of South America until the news of the end of the War reached me. The war to end all wars, they called it. Much good that did them._

_I moved to London, hoping to reconcile with my dying youngest sister, Margaret. The moment she saw me, she screamed bloody murder and called me the Devil. I can’t say I didn’t expect that._

_Still, I decided to stay in the city. I hoped for a new start. And I got one. People were rebuilding, celebrating, living life. I fed off of that youthful enthusiasm. It made me feel young again. The happiness, as all things in my life, didn’t last long._

_I tried to enlist immediately. I’m already dead, so I might as well help out in some way, do what I didn’t the first time. I couldn’t provide any documentation of my citizenship, nor my general existence. To the world, I was a man who died in 19th century America. My accent didn’t help. I was sent out the door, threatened with the police._

_Once the war took its first swing, they stopped caring. They gave the job to any willing man._

_The men who fight alongside me, all look older than I do. They look at me with pity, like I’m some child, who signed a death warrant. Little do they know it’s the other way around. These kids, whose lives have just begun, 20-year-olds, who’ve barely fallen in love, will die in battle, while I, an old man, who’s lived through too much already will, most likely, survive._

_Today we stood around a grave filled with the bodies of twenty men, destroyed by bullets and grenades. We cried and told stories and buried them in the earth, before going back to eat and pray that we live to see another day, pray we don’t end up like them. I didn’t. I don’t pray. Not anymore. The cross I used to wear around my neck would burn me now._

“Eat up, boy,” someone sitting beside me says. I don’t recognise him, until one of his buddies sitting nearby calls him “David.”

He eyes my food with wild hunger. I look down at my bowl full of watery soup, a piece of bread soaking inside. I don’t need to eat, at least not _that_ , but I keep up the pretense. It’s a waste of resources, but it’s either that or admitting I’m a monster and being thrown off the army in the best case scenario. Worst case, with a stake in my heart.

“I’m not hungry. Can’t eat,” I say offhandedly. It’s a good-enough excuse for those who know what it’s like to see someone die, “Eat my portion.”

I hand him the bowl and, without a question, he downs the soup like a beast.

I stand, leaving David before he can make conversation, and walk toward the fire. I can see a few familiar faces, lit up orange by the flames. Paul, Philip, Oliver. Before I can reach the circle around the pit, a hand grabs me and pulls me into the darkness. My eyes adjust. Andrew. Clean shaven with hair slicked back, he dons a smile on his face. Always the optimist.

“Come on, I wanna show you somethin’,” he says, pulling me after him.

The moon illuminates his face, casting a shadow below his sharp cheekbones and pointed nose. His hair is grown out, ready for a haircut, though I like it when it’s this length. It makes him look mature. Elegant.

When I first arrived, his was the first face I saw. He was beautiful. Immediately I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I couldn’t die, but my feelings could kill me.

He pulls me further and further away from camp, towards a creek where the moonlight reflects in the water, and trees and bushes create a nook, a quiet hiding spot, away from the entire world.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding these past few days?” I ask when we reach the water.

He nods, then bends down and beckons me to do the same. I do.

“Look,” he says, pointing to the family of frogs resting on the shore. Their slick skin glows silver. “They’ve found a home here. The kids came out of the water just yesterday.” His gaze is fixed on the frogs in a childlike fascination.

I’m not looking at the frogs. My eyes are on him, his face, his expression. His eyebrows are knitted and his eyes are glowing. There’s so much life in them. _Life was cruel when it put you into this world at this time, Andrew._

“Look! The kids are trying to catch bugs!” He grabs my hand to catch my attention.

I tense up.

He glances at me and I smile, though I don’t care about frogs. I smile and squeeze his hand to show I appreciate it all.

“They’re cute,” I say and his face lights up.

We lie down on the hard ground and I’m sure Andrew’s cold. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s looking up at the stars, millions of them flashing down at us like small explosions far, far away.

He takes hold of my hand and points up, explaining the names of the different constellations. I can’t keep up, my focus drifts away, but his voice is soft and sure and _happy_. That’s all that matters.

“You’re cold,” he says abruptly, interrupting his monologue. There’s a sudden hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m not,” I sit up, pulling my hand free off his.

So does he.

“Your hands are freezing.” He frowns and touches my cheek.

His hand is scorching. And his pulse is fast, faster than normal.

“You’re _so_ cold. Are you alright?” he asks.

I nod, putting a hand over his, the one resting on my cheek. 

“With you, I’m always warm,” I say, before I can realise how stupid and flirtatious that sounds.

“You’re absolutely freezing,” he says, looking into my eyes, ignoring my remark. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“I’m sure,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too strained. Lying, even if not direct, is hard when it comes to Andrew. “I’ve always been cold. Most of my life. It’s nothing serious.”

Except it is. I cannot die, I have to drink human blood to survive, I cannot enter a church or touch a cross or age. I’m older than anyone on this planet, yet I look like a boy. I’m a monster. A goddamn vampire. But that doesn’t matter here and now. None of that matters around Andrew.

_17 September 1942_

_I told him._

_I couldn’t keep up the pretense. The lying made me feel guilty. It weighed on my conscience so much that I could not sleep. I lay awake, staring into the darkness, my mind at work. Too busy._

_After the morning routine exercises I asked him if we could talk. He was clearly confused at my seriousness, maybe even my nervous ticks. We headed to the creek. I was quiet for a while-- it felt like hours-- as I gathered my courage. I feared I might not be able to say it, but I ripped off the bandaid. It felt as if a bomb exploded in my chest._

_Andrew was silent as thoughts rushed through my mind: panic and heartbreak combined. He scrunched up his face, then just said: ‘That makes sense.’_

_It wasn’t what I expected, but anything is better than being called the Devil or an abomination. Still, I was shocked. I asked him if he understood what I meant, how he could be okay with all this. He said it wasn’t a big deal. He told me there’s nothing unholy about me, just like there’s nothing unholy about us._

_The rest, as they say, is history._

Everyone is shivering in the biting cold of late English autumn. Except for me. So I pretend.

The bullets haven’t started firing yet. We’re eating our last scraps of food. I give mine to Andrew. He takes them without a word and squeezes my hand.

“So, Jim, when we get out of here, what’re you gonna do?” Paul, my best mate, asks.

“I dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe I’ll settle down, finally live a peaceful life. Or I’ll travel the world. See what else is out there, y’know. You?”

“I’m gonna open a bakery.” He smiles, his mind travelling to the distant future. “I’ll wake up at the crack of dawn and make breads and scones and all sorts of stuff and the children walking to school will stop by the window and stare at the decorated cakes. They’ll pop in for a warm muffin ‘n then off to learn-”

“You’re empty stomach’s talkin’ again, Paul,” Phillip, sitting at Paul’s side, his hat over his eyes, grunts.

“Shut up, Pip. My dreams are my dreams.”

“And they may be, just not here, not right now, mate,” Phillip says.

Paul sighs, his mind having wandered back from the trip to a brighter world.

The bullets start flying. Commands from commanding officers echo through the trenches. The image of the future disappears along with any form of peace.

_27 November 1942_

_There are thirteen wounded and one dead._

_Not Andrew or Paul or Pip. Only Oliver’s a bit beaten up. But that tough guy’ll be alright._

_Nobody talked on the way back. We were too tired and broken. Andrew was awfully quiet when we got back too. Any last shred of positivity or joy he tried to cling onto seemed to have disappeared. I found him sitting by the creek, looking out at the dark waters. The frogs were gone and the air smelt of death. We sat, side by side for a long time, until Andrew left to go to sleep._

_I sat in the quiet for a bit, trying to collect my thoughts, but they seemed to have drifted away like leaves in the wind. Paul was still up when I returned. He made conversation and we stayed up, chatting, until his eyes gave out and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. The war has invaded every aspect of our lives now._

_3 December 1942_

_Paul asked me about my family today. I must admit, I was surprised. He’s never touched the subject before. I guess the snowcover and the incoming Christmas atmosphere brings up thoughts of loved ones._

_I tried to dodge the question, but when he insisted I told him I was an orphan. A believable lie, fitting the fact that I never write letters home like the others do. He looked guilty and wanted to say something, but I changed the subject, asking him about his own family._

_He told me about his sisters, anecdotes of their growing up, his strict parents and the way he tried to make his sisters laugh after his father had tried to scold them. His voice was soaked in love. How one could hold so much affection for their family is beyond me._

_But if I could still pray, I would pray for his family. And for him. That he returns home to them. That he celebrates the holidays with them once again._

_24 December 1942_

_The fighting has ceased as the semblance of a festive atmosphere fills the air. Everyone is more joyful than they should be. It’s been so long since I’ve experienced a Christmas Eve, that I’d forgotten the infectious cheerfulness. Maybe my family was never that cheerful._

_We collected the dead from battlefields and gathered round to celebrate. The men sang carols. I recognised some of them, their lyrics changed but the melodies the same. I tried to sing along, but it felt like swallowing glass. Vampire perk._

_Andrew and I met by the creek. He showed me a piece of a mistletoe he had taken. It was such a silly gesture, but he insisted, laughing like a child. We kissed under the mistletoe and it was then that I understood the fondness everyone holds for the holiday. Even a war as terrible as we’ve experienced could not stop the boys from spreading the joy, from a moment of peacefulness._

  
  


Bullets are winging their way past me, bombs are going off, dirt is flying, and there’s only one goal in my mind, the animalistic instinct: kill.

I’m not distracted by Paul or Andrew. Half of us stayed at base. Something about this battle being too dangerous to send the whole crew. They were right. Men are falling like trees in a hurricane; one’s blown apart by a bomb, another falls with twenty bullet holes in his chest.

The smell of blood is overwhelming, which only strengthens the monstrous side of me.

Bullets rip apart my uniform, lodging into my body, but you can’t kill what’s already dead.

The gun is digging into my shoulder, painful and heavy. A human being would have collapsed already, from both the blood loss and the searing pain. More proof that whatever I am is not human.

Paul made me promise that I come back no matter the cost. Before I left, he took me aside and cried and said goodbye. I wanted to tell him not to worry, that I cannot die by the bullets or the grenades. The moment wasn’t right. I accepted his tears, comforted him.

Andrew never said goodbye. He didn’t have to. A goodbye means ‘I’ll probably never see you again,’ but he knows better than that.

I trip over a mound. Glancing back, I spot a face I recognise on the ground.

Phillip.

My breath hitches. I fall to my knees.

Pip’s face is caked with mud and sweat and blood. His eyes are fixed on the sky and empty, lacking any hint of life. The spark is gone.

“Philip-” I try to squeeze out the words, but they catch in my throat.

I try to shake him awake, but my efforts are fruitless.

He doesn’t stir awake. He doesn’t grumble for me to stop with the cries. 

He’s dead.

Gone.

I’m dead, but I’m here. How’s that fair? I’m a monster, while he had a soul of gold.

When I tear my eyes away from Phillip-- Phillip’s body-- my ears pick up an eerie silence. Pure nothingness. There’s no more bullets, no more screams, no more explosions. As if the world has stopped, not even a rustle of leaves in the distance. I stand in a battlefield strewn with the bodies of soldiers, some still dying, writhing like worms, beyond help.

I pick up Pip’s body and head back to base.

Andrew’s first to see me. His face lights up until his eyes shift to what’s in my arms. His face drops, the light dimming, his eyes filling with tears. He shouts for the rest and helps me lay Phillip on the ground.

The soldiers crowd around, some-- probably Pip’s closest friends-- collapsing beside him. Others, to see who returned.

One of the commanding officers comes up, grave-faced. He barely glances at Phillip.

“Where’s the rest of my men?” he asks.

“All killed, sir,” I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking, “I don’t know how I escaped alive.”

He eyes me, trying to spot the cowardice, the man who ran from battle, but my clothes are torn and I look like hell. Feel like that too.

“Go get yourself cleaned and patched up,” he snaps.

“Yes, sir.”

Andrew patches me up. I don’t need it. I’ve already healed, but if the army sees I came back without a scratch, I’ll be labelled a coward.

We don’t talk the entire time. I think he understands.

When it gets dark, we sneak off to the creek and he kisses me like the world is going to end. Because it might. Because it already has.

_17 January 1943_

_How can I forgive myself for what I cannot control?_

_All these men died in that battle and I had to luck out._

_I should be glad to live another day, to see Paul and Andrew and Oliver. I’m not. Most still believe I’m a coward. They think I ran away from battle. Paul’s starting to believe it too. It’s better to die a hero than be the only one to survive the war._

_The nightmares are getting worse and now I fear falling asleep. You would have thought I wouldn’t need sleep. I do. Not as much as normal people, but I sleep like them. I dream too._

_I wish for the sweet release the Reaper brings. Though if I could die, I would burn in the pits of Hell. Maybe I am already dead and this is my punishment._

_24 February 1943_

_I told Paul my secret. Not mine and Andrew’s. My own._

_He’s been wary of me ever since I returned from battle as the sole survivor. He deserved the truth, so I gave it to him._

_He didn’t believe me at first, laughed, thought I was making excuses. Until I showed him the lack of scars and the lack of a beating heart and the fangs. I brought a cross and showed his how it burns me._

_He became silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. I could tell his mind was hard at work. When he spoke again, it was to ask me why I hadn’t told him earlier. His voice was laced with underlying anger. He told me I could have spared him days of worry and pacing and prayers sent my way. He left in a storm of outrage and confusion before I could say anything._

_28 February 1943_

_Paul has been avoiding me for days now. He’s kept to himself._

_Andrew noticed the tension, but I asked him not to intervene._

_Even among the friction, Paul accepted my portion of food this morning. He glanced at me, eyes shining with fondness for just a moment, but he did not say a word._

_Nevertheless, Paul’s anger being directed at my keeping secrets rather than my evil nature is easier to handle._

_21 March 1943_

_Tensions are high._

_Tomorrow we head into one of the largest battles yet._

_Nobody wanted to acknowledge what we were all thinking as we gathered in groups, spending what might be our last moments together._

_The thought of losing everyone I care about, the mere idea, terrifies me. I expect today to be another sleepless night._

They weren’t kidding when they warned us it was the biggest fight yet.

My instincts have kicked in and there’s only me and the target. I drown out the sound around me until it blends into static, white noise. 

The sound of Paul’s voice jolts me out of my fixation, my head whipping to where I heard the voice, just as a bomb explodes nearby. It flings me sideways. 

I end up on the ground, pain of the impact radiating through my bones. Shrapnel digs into my skin. Pulling myself back up, I notice Paul just next to me. He’s on the ground, clutching his chest. His breaths are fast and heavy.

“Paul,” I cry, kneeling at his side.

“Jimmy.” He sees me and tries to smile. A grimace forms instead. “You should be fighting. Go!”

“Let me help you,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate, “You’re hurt.”

“I’m beyond help now,” he says, lifting his hands to reveal pooling blood.

My vampire senses kick in, but I push them down.

“Paul-”

“No, Jim, listen,” he interrupts me, taking hold of my hand, “I’m so sorry for getting angry when you told me your secret. I should have understood. It was horrible of me to think your reason for not telling me was spiteful.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, his voice fainter by the minute, “I need you to know I accept and love you, vampire or not. You’ve been the best friend-” He heaves, grimacing from pain, “-the best friend a man could ask for.”

“Paul-” I try to say something, anything, but my voice is weak.

“I wish we had more time.”

“We can!” I say, clutching his hand, “I can save you. Just let me turn you! You’ll be like me, you’ll _live_!”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I signed up for this. It’s an honour to die for my country, for the future of the world, for my sisters. For you.”

“But what about the bakery?” Tears are blurring my vision.

“That was just wishful thinking, Jimmy. Daydreams.”

“No-” I say, the world around me breaking apart, “How can this- How can you accept this?”

He just smiles.

“Jim,” he says, clutching my hand, “Live a good life when all this ends. For me.”

Tears fall down my cheeks and onto the ground.

“I’ll always be by your side. No matter what,” he says weakly, and closes his eyes, muttering, “You are the best man I know, Jim.”

His grip on my hand loosens.

I search for his heartbeat, but it’s gone. A melody cut short, mid-chord.

For a moment, the world ceases to exist. I’m flung into a black hole, non-existent, timeless. But Paul asked me to live for him. And Andrew’s somewhere out there as well. I guide my consciousness back to reality.

Standing up, I face the fight happening around me, a new kind of rage flowing through my veins.

~~_3 April 1943  
Tod Today _ ~~

_8 May 1945_

_We won._

Everyone sits around the radio in anticipation of what we already expect. The agitation and nerves travel like static between a balloon and a cotton jumper.

The men cheer as Chruchill’s voice announces the “End of the War in Europe.” They hug and laugh and weep in relief. My reaction is more subdued, but I can’t help feeling cheerful as well. I feel as if a weight I never knew I was carrying had been taken off my shoulders. I grin when I see Andrew jumping with glee. He looks youthful again, the same Andrew I remember from when I first met him.

“ _We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing_ ,” the voice on the radio proclaims, static disfiguring the words.

The men cheer again, ignoring the second part of that sentence, one that feels closer to home for me: “- _let us not forget for a moment the toils and efforts that lie ahead_.”

Victory might be in our hands, but the War will stay in our minds forever.

Maybe the others don’t mind that right now. All they care about is getting back to their families. That’s something I could never understand. All I have is an eternity of loneliness.

I’ve grown to appreciate the constant company. The war, though its terrible nature haunts me, gave me what I hadn’t had since I became a vampire. A family. Now, I will lose it all.

Everyone goes quiet again, as King George speaks. Then celebrations start up again, chatter filling the air like electricity. For a brief moment everyone forgets the horrors they’d had to experience.

The radio stays on, and I stay sitting alone, observing the crowd. A melancholy of sorts sets into my bones. 

For a moment, I think I spot Paul among the men, before the crowd moves and his image disappears. I don’t see any of my friends. They all died, Oliver only a couple months ago, the last one to go. Andrew is the only one left, but it hurts to look at him. He can go back to his family now, to normalcy, and forget any of this ever happened. Forget me.

I feel a presence at my side. 

It’s Andrew.

The world hates me today.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting at my side.

I nod, averting his piercing gaze.

“Why aren’t you celebrating then?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting together, “The war’s over! We can leave, go home, finally start our life!”

My head perks up at the final two worlds, confusion settling in my brain like dust. He couldn’t have meant it like that.

Andrew notices my puzzlement and shakes his head, laughing.

“Did you think I would stop caring about you as soon as the war ended?” he says.

If I were alive, my face would have turned as red as a tomato.

He just chuckles and takes my hand, intertwining our fingers.

This isn’t just the End. It’s the beginning of something. Something new. A new life, full of possibilities. And not alone anymore.

***

When you’re immortal, the longer you live, the faster your life passes. It’s pure mathematics. If you’ve lived a year, another year feels like a lifetime. Because from your perspective, it is. When you’ve lived hundreds, a year feels like the blink of an eye, a feather in the wind. Memories of the past fade away and you might as well have never lived those hundreds of years.

Seventy five years at Andrew’s side felt like a hundred lifetimes, albums full of never-fading photographs.

When society started to get back on track after the war, Andrew and I retired into a calm neighbourhood. We lived a life on the sidelines, far away from the prying eyes, though there still were rumour about us. That’s inevitable.

Andrew grew older, while I remained the same. His back gave out, his heart almost did too. His face became etched with wrinkles rather than freckles. I looked like an eighteen-year-old. Still, he stayed by my side. 

Early on, I offered him eternity with me. He declined, saying that although he loved me, he couldn’t imagine living forever, the world moving on while he stays like a bug trapped in amber. It was never brought up again.

“D’you think they’ll recognise me?” I ask, for the tenth time today, as I drive Andrew and me to a memorial celebration.

For the seventy-fifth anniversary of Victory Day, the organisers have invited any living veterans to the celebration. 

Only Andrew received a letter

It shouldn’t have hurt that much. I decided on the day I would fake my death, but it’s not like I had a choice.

“Memories get foggier with time, Jim, especially ones like _that_ ,” he says, “After so long the details fade. You’ll be a mere stranger to them.”

That doesn’t reassure me. But the thought of them having no clue who I am feels safer than being recognised.

We arrive at the memorial and I help Andrew out of the car. He’s still quite supple for his age. Even then, he leans on his cane with one hand and clutches my arm with the other as we walk. The crowd of media, professors, and government officials is already large as we find ourselves at the seats reserved for veterans.

There aren’t many of us left anymore. Old age caught up to everyone, especially in the recent years. I’ve lost count of the number of funerals. 

Many of the veterans still alive have declined their invitations due to health concerns. There’s only a couple sitting in the seats. I don’t recognise any of them except the one closest to Andrew. David. 

He spots us and smiles. His uniform is a bit loose around the shoulders, though neatly ironed. I try to hide my shock of seeing him again, the years visible in his every move.

“Andrew, right?” he says, moving closer to us. His voice is weaker than the hollers I remember from back in the day.

Andrew nods.

“Great to see you’re still in good shape, Dave,” he says.

“You too,” David says, then glances at me. A flash of recognition passes through his eyes and for a moment I imagine the impossible. My stomach churns as he opens his mouth.

“You’re Jim’s grandson, aren’t you?” he says.

Relief washes over me and I nod. 

“You look so much like him,” he adds, smiling to himself as if remembering a memory, “It’s nice to see you taking care of your grandfather’s friend. You never married, did you, Andrew? No kids of your own to keep you company, eh?”

Andrew shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his faint smile.

“Excuse me,” a woman says, putting a hand on my shoulder. 

I jolt at the touch. 

She’s relatively young, with a lanyard around her neck, wearing an elegant blue suit. She must be an organiser of the memorial.

“The event is about to begin, could you please head to the guest area?” she asks, eyeing me, as if to figure me out.

I glance at Andrew, who gives me a sad smile. He squeezes my hand and I smile back. 

Leaving the veteran area, I imagine a world where I’m sitting next to Andrew, wrinkled and old as well, reminiscing the few smiles of our past. Not “Jim’s grandon”, but Jim himself, embracing the horrors I experienced. 

For a mere second I step into the world where Andrew and I live a couple more years, until our age catches up to us. In that world I get to see Paul and Oliver again. In that world, I can rest. Instead, I live on. I am forever an eighteen-year-old going to another funeral. Forever an echo of everyone I’ve lost.


End file.
